Say Something
by icbdrummergirl
Summary: John is truly broken after the incident at St. Bart's, and it's going to be a rough path ahead. Sherlock begins to realize just how human he really is. I will explore John's grieving after the fall, including flashbacks and other memories created by me. I will also introduce Sherlock's encounters during the two years of his absence. *I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters*
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This is my first story exploring the relationship of John and Sherlock, but I wouldn't quite classify it as Johnlock. Please be kind, it's only my second attempt at Sherlock fanfic. Reviews would be lovely!

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"SHERLOCK!"

John watched helplessly, feeling all the breath leave his lungs, as he watched the detective spread his arms and fall forward from the building. He was frozen in place, unable to breathe as the world slowed around him. The surrounding air began to suffocate him, his blood running cold as he watched the tall man disappear from his sight. His heart lurched as he rushed forward, only to see the body of his best friend motionless on the pavement. Suddenly pain engulfed his body as he fell towards the pavement in agony.

But the pavement wasn't as hard as he expected, and he opened his eyes to find himself tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets. His body shuddered as the sobs overtook him, and he felt the hole in his chest grow infinitesimally. Two weeks. It had only been two weeks, and yet the image of his best friend cold and lifeless shook him to the core. He was not okay. He knew that he wasn't. He hadn't slept properly since before it had happened, and now every chance of he had to rest was shattered by the nightmares. He curled into a ball, hating himself for being weak as the tears poured down his cheeks and he choked on the air he was desperately trying to take in. It was as if he had died along with Sherlock that day, but he knew that wasn't the truth. If he had died, too, Sherlock would be with him now. Not six feet under. The tightness in his chest finally eased up enough so that he could finally crawl out of bed and into the bathroom where he was promptly sick. A knock sounded on the bathroom door, and Mrs. Hudson slowly slipped into the bathroom to place a tentative hand on John's trembling shoulder. He nodded weakly, and slowly climbed to his feet. Tightly gripping the sink, he managed to steady himself, and he slowly lifted his head to stare at the image in the mirror. _Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic, John._ _Look at you, you're a trainwreck. _He shook his head, trying to quiet his subconscious. He noted his pallor as well as the alarmingly dark circles under his eyes.

"John," she whispered quietly, "I think you need help." Her eyes were damp as she watched him, and it was clear how worried she was for him. If he had any heart left, it would have ached for her. But that was impossible, for his heart was gone forever. It had stopped beating the moment its thief stopped breathing. He turned on the tap, splashing some water on his face before turning to walk past Mrs. Hudson. He had to swallow hard as he passed the empty chair of his friend. Upon entering the kitchen, he paused to stare at the microscope upon the table surface. It was covered in dust, and this sent a pang to his stomach, for Sherlock had always kept it clean. He lightly traced his fingers over the cool surface, and he felt the tears rush forward again as he recalled the last argument they had in that very spot.

"_Are you kidding me? Please tell me that there is not actually a bag of tongues in our bloody fridge," John shouted. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from his experiment, and John only grew angrier. "Hello? Do you ever listen to me? Sherlock!" He snapped his fingers above the microscope and finally Sherlock looked up, an annoyed expression on his face._

"_What is it, John? Can't you see how important this is," he asked angrily. "What are you shouting about?" John gave him an incredulous look and held up the bag of tongues. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, they're tongues. What about them?"_

"_I know what they are! I want to know why you have them," John yelled, shaking the bag in his face. "This is where I draw the line, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock returned his attention to the microscope, "Obviously they are for an experiment. Now will you relax? You're going to frighten Mrs. Hudson." His slender fingers adjusted the dials to his liking before settling back in. John watched him for a long moment before reaching for the microscope and sliding it off the table, holding it out of reach. "What the HELL are you doing, John? You're ruining my data," Sherlock lunged for the microscope, knocking John off balance and back against the sink where the base of the tool hit the countertop hard, putting a small chip in the surface._

_John wrestled Sherlock backwards, making him hit his tailbone hard off the corner of the table, "You cock! I don't care about your bloody experiment! They are nothing more than busy work for you, and all they do is drive everyone else crazy!" Sherlock shoved at John, but John held his ground. "No more body parts! It's unsanitary, it's wrong, and I don't even think it's legal!"_

_Sherlock scoffed, "Mycroft is the British Government. There are ways around limitations that normal people have to endure. They just aren't bright enough to achieve the things that I can. Stupidity doesn't deserve reward." John had glared at him before slamming the base back down onto the table, gathering his coat to go. Sherlock straightened his shirt, "Where are you going?"_

"_Out," John said loudly, "Before I kill you and stuff you into the fridge instead." His voice was frighteningly calm as he turned to go down the stairs. It wasn't until John reached the sidewalk and began to walk that he received a text._

_ Need milk for the tongues. Hurry back. It's important._

_ SH_

_John threw his phone into the street, shaking his head as he stormed off in the direction of the grocery._

The tears burned hot against his cheeks now as he ran his fingers absently over the chip in the counter, visibly shaking as more sobs escaped him. He felt arms surround him, and for several minutes, he simply cried in the arms of his landlady before finally regaining what was left of his dignity. He wiped at his eyes, his voice weak, "I can't do it, Mrs. Hudson. I can't stay here any longer. Not without him."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I'm so sorry this took forever, but I just haven't had the time. Sorry about the short update, too. Please leave a review! Thanks for reading!**

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"Horrible, isn't it," a voice sounded distantly behind him. "Seeing him like this... It's enough to make even _me_ sad, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't move, just continued to stare at the screen, his icy blue eyes glued to the sight of his best friend grieving.

"Brother, dear," Mycroft sighed behind him. "You have to do something. You haven't eaten or slept in days. You're not doing him any favors like this."

"Wrong," Sherlock said under his breath, gazing intensely at the disheveled man on the screen.

"What do you mean 'wrong'? You do have to eat, Sherlock. Even you are human," Mycroft said quietly.

"No! Don't you see how wrong this is? I don't understand," Sherlock snapped, standing abruptly. "Why is he like this?"

"Like what, brother mine? Devastated? Grief-stricken," Mycroft frowned. "What were you expecting? That he would continue on as nothing had changed?"

"He shouldn't... I didn't... He wasn't supposed to do this," Sherlock said desperately. "I did this to help him, to protect him! He wasn't supposed to care this much."

"You were everything to him, Sherlock. He is heartbroken over losing you," Mycroft said simply.

"That's impossible, don't be preposterous," Sherlock huffed. "I don't matter to him... I couldn't have meant that much to him."

Mycroft stepped closer, pulling his distraught little brother into an awkward hug. Sherlock tensed, resisting before getting comfortable. "There, there, brother dear." Suddenly he slapped his brother hard upside the back of his head.

"What the hell is wrong with you," Sherlock exclaimed, jumping back, with an expression half twisted in anger, half in confusion.

"Stop feeling so sorry for yourself," Mycroft growled. "This is not about you, Sherlock, it is not about John, it's about Moriarty. We had a plan, and the only way to keep John safe from harm is to destroy Moriarty network."

"I don't feel sorry for myself," Sherlock hissed, "I feel sorry for him."

"You had your opportunity to tell him, and you didn't. He doesn't know, and maybe it's better off this way," Mycroft sighed sadly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock swallowed hard, turning away from his brother.

"Oh, but you do," Mycroft said quietly. "You know very well." He took a step forward, "But it hardly matters now.", He reached out, patting Sherlock's shoulder, "No more spying. There is work to be done. Do it for him, Sherlock. On some small level, make this right."

Sherlock listened to his brother's retreating footsteps before looking at the screen one last time. He let the image of John in pain burn into his memory before placing his hand on the laptop. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry," he whispered softly before closing the laptop and turning to follow his brother, the cool, calculating exterior slipping into place once again.


End file.
